by Erin O'Quinn
“Cay, tell me why you are at the school this morning.”
“I am waiting for Liam to finish his godspel lesson with Brother Galen. So Tuesday must be one of your teaching days.”
“Yes. Three times a week—Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday.”
“And Brigid teaches here, too, I understand.”
“We are lucky to have Bree. She has studied very seriously, and her skills far surpass my own.”
I was flabbergasted. “To hear her tell it, Luke, she can hardly stumble along in Latin. I shall have to scold her for lying to me. But really, I am delighted to hear it. I so want our school to succeed.”
“I think soon we will have Andreas, and also James the Mentor.”
“What!” I was surprised, and delighted, too. They were friends from my life in Faerie, scholars both. “How will Father Patrick fare without them?”
“Patrick will not hold others back, Cay. He has come to spread Christ’s love and all his teachings, not to guard them jealously.”
I immediately understood what Luke was saying. “That is the reason he gave us Brother Galen and Brother Jericho,” I said.
“Exactly. And just wait. Very shortly, he will make both of those men priests and then bishops. And other monks will take their place, until Patrick has hundreds of missionaries, all throughout this beautiful land.”
“I wonder when Jericho will return to us?” I mused to Luke.
“Brother Jericho returned from Emain Macha just yesterday, Caylith. He tells me that Patrick will travel to Tara again. This time for paschal rites, close to Eastertide.”
“Right at the time of his own feast day? I wonder why he wants to be away from his monastery at our most important Christian festival. Have you heard anything, Luke?”
“Nay, I know only that when Patrick decides to do something, then lo, it will be done. But mayhap it is related to the High King’s loss of his lapdog druids.”
“Luke, you know so much. Tell me—what about his druids?”
“I know that about three or four months ago, just about the time you yourself were in Tara, the king mysteriously dismissed his two high priests. You heard nothing while you were there?” Luke gazed at me, his head cocked to the side, and his dark eyes held dancing lights.
“I, ah, I might have heard something. But I was there only a few hours. Tell me, Luke, where are his druids now?”
“They have mysteriously disappeared. Some say they have taken a currach to Albion, so shamed are they to be seen in Éire. Others say they have disguised themselves so that none will revile them for being frauds and charlatans. I know not.”
“I would know those two wolfhounds in the dark—yea, with their robes pulled over their heads. I would—” And then I realized I had given my secret away.
Luke said, “Shame on you, Caylith. Keeping secrets is still your main pastime, I see.”
“Oh, Luke.” I was flustered and embarrassed. “I admit I know a bit about the two. But now is not the best time to talk about it.”
“You are forgiven, dear girl. I know you want no praise for ridding the king of parasites. I will say no more. And it is time for my students to hear my pearls of wisdom.”
He rose, and I stood also. I put my hand on his arm and gave it an affectionate squeeze. “Dear Luke. You have given me so much. What can I ever do—?”
“Say no more, my friend,” he said gruffly. “Or perhaps, um, yes, there is something you could do for me.”
“Name it.”
“On the Sabbath, I saw that Quince and Persimmon have recently come to Derry.” He was referring to the lovely young twins who had become caretakers of their own people escaping from Faerie. “Could you, ah, would you—?”
“Introduce you? To which one?”
“Call it my imagination, but I think Quince has looked at me with favor. From a distance, mind you.”
“I will do it, Luke!”
He graced me with a wide grin and walked to where a score or more students were already sitting on benches, waiting for him. I saw that a partition or screen had been placed in several places throughout the large round-house. Behind one of those screens, Galen and Liam would be talking about the scriptures.
I decided to walk around the large round room, led by my curiosity about the partitions. Who would be behind them, and what were they learning? I walked from one to the other, pausing to listen, but I heard nothing.
There were only two partitions left, and behind the next one I clearly heard Liam’s voice. “Cén fáth, a Shéamais?” I walked on quickly, for I did not want to eavesdrop on his lesson.
The last partition stood close to the door, and I lingered a moment, hearing nothing. As I was about to move on, a familiar voice snagged at my memory and brought a lump into my throat. “What need have I of your pity, monk? How often must I tell you bald intruders to leave me with my own torment?”
Brother Jericho’s answer sounded quiet and sincere. “You think ’tis pity, brother Owen. But I promise you, ’tis love.”
“Pah! I revile your love. Leave me to my pain.”
I moved quickly for the door and went outside. My breathing was labored, and I stood for several minutes without feeling the cold or seeing the lazy snow drops falling slowly all around me. My mind was suffused with the image of Owen Sweeney, the murderous, slave-holding Sweeney who had held my mother in slavery and who had arranged the capture of my Liam.
The last time I had seen him, he was bound into his own invalid chair, being transported from his hideaway on Trawbreaga Bay back to Derry for punishment. Liam had knelt at the side of his chair, loosening the ropes that had bitten into his skin, and Sweeney had spat on him. Still Liam cleaned and dressed his wounds, all the while Sweeney screamed his hate.
Father Patrick had placed Sweeney in the care of his monks, certain that the vile cripple would accept Christ’s love and forgiveness. I had never questioned Patrick’s acts of Christian compassion until now. What good would come of keeping Sweeney in thrall to the monks? He would only vilify them until he devised a way to use them to his advantage.
I took a deep breath and began to use my deep-breathing techniques. After a time, perhaps ten or so minutes, I felt clear headed and calm. I already knew Sweeney was being held somewhere here, either at the church or somewhere nearby. I had emptied my thoughts of him until now. And now I had to face up to my own fears. He was being attended to with compassion by Jericho and Galen, so he thirsted not, he hungered not. What pain could he be talking about? I decided that he was playing the Grecian tragic figure, all for show. He reviled the monks’ pity, and yet I thought he must crave it, too.
I looked around, suddenly aware of my surroundings. I had stood long enough in the swirling snow that it now covered my hair and my tunic. Behind me, I heard Brother Jericho’s dear voice.
“Who is this red fox, all covered in snow? Does she wait in ambush at the very door of our school?”
I turned around and smiled at the monk. Fair of hair and face, with level, brown eyes, he was a young man who had risen quickly under Father Patrick’s tutelage. He had been a good friend to me. It was Jericho who had traveled with me to free my mother from Sweeney’s thrall, who had stood unquailing as Sweeney’s brutish lickspittles held him. It was he who had seen my encounter with Michael’s brother and who had told the truth—the tale of Fergus MacCool, a tale still being told. Jericho was the priest who had translated for me and Mama when the high king was deciding our suit for lands. And finally, it was Jericho who had taken Michael’s brother Fergus as a penitent to Father Patrick.
“Brother, welcome back. I have missed you. Liam, too, misses you.” I held my hand out to him, and he clasped it in a gesture of warm friendship.
“Caylith, I see you have been standing in the cold for some time. Are you quite all right?”
“Yes, Brother Jericho. I just heard—by accident, please believe me—I heard his voice. I was not expecting it. I admit that madman still frightens me a bit. I wish he we
re not here in Derry, free to roam about.”
Jericho looked at me, his serene eyes untroubled. “Think about it. Where could he possibly roam about? Not in the ditches and ravines around the school and the church, for his invalid’s chair was designed for indoors. Not carried by friends, for who would befriend him?”
“You are right, of course. I am not being rational. Someone told me once that we fear what we know not. Perhaps if I were to face him…”
I went back into the school. There was no sign of Sweeney. Galen and Liam were standing near the door, and both of them looked surprised to see how the snow clung to my hair and tunic. I wiped a bit of snow from my eyebrows and laughed. “Have you never seen a snow warrior?”
Liam put one arm around my shoulders as though to warm me. I looked up at him and smiled a little. “I am not cold, Liam. But you may embrace me any time.”
“Time to go,” he said gruffly. He suspected that something was not right. I held my hand out to Galen, who bowed and smiled. Waving to the two monks, I left with Liam.
We walked for a while in silence. The sun was feebly trying to penetrate the grayness overhead, and the snowflakes had stopped swirling.
“Liam,” I said, looking straight ahead. “I heard the voice of Sweeney.”
“Yes. I saw him. Tá go maith, a Cháit. He…not hurt us. Never again.”
My hand was throbbing, and I looked down at it. The scars stood out red against my pale skin, the U marks I had made with my own nails biting into my skin. That had happened at Sweeney’s holdings months ago, the moment I beheld Liam’s intended prison, the pile of rocks that may have become his grave. I must have dug into those old scars again just now, unthinkingly, and bruised myself again.
Liam stopped and held my hand, palm up. “I…heal ye, later.” He brought my palm to his mouth and kissed it gently. I wanted to talk with him about the godspel and about the bathing tub, but Sweeney’s malevolent eyes were burning into my heart, stopping my voice. I nodded, and we walked in silence all the way home.
Chapter 14:
The Wild Places
I lay in my fox-skin tunic where Liam had put me on our bed. I thought he was fussing a bit too much, but, guiltily, I loved being pampered by him. He sat on the edge of the bed near the table where we kept the pouch of healing powder and held out his hand. I put my own small hand into his, and he gently licked the palm. Then he shook some of the healing powder into it and sat holding it. Right away I felt a cool sensation, and I watched my skin in fascination. The bruising left completely, leaving only the old scars.
“Now…turn over,” he said sternly.
I obediently turned onto my stomach, and I felt his hands gently lift the tunic, until my buttocks were completely exposed. I remembered that this morning he had seized me very hard while making love. If there were bruises, I did not mind, for they would be reminders of long moments of exquisite passion. Thinking about this morning made me moan just a little, even before I felt him softly lick the places where he had held me too hard.
The cool feeling spread as the healing potion touched my skin. Liam said, “Not move, Cat.” I felt him straddle me as I lay still, and then his mouth and hands moved over my bum. Each time he sucked me and stroked me from behind, it made me wild with passion. It was no different just now, as I felt his hot mouth travel over my entire back side, and I arched my back and thrust my butt toward his mouth. “Oh, oh,” I cried. Somehow from the back, the way his mouth fit me, the angle was perfect, and now I craved the sensation.
“Tell me how ye love it. Tell me.” He was licking and sucking me, and my whole world became a blur of passion. I twisted and cried out, feeling his tongue thrusting into me, and the wetness of his sucking. In only a matter of moments, I felt the white-hot passion, just as I had this morning, and I did not know what I was saying or doing. Then the spasms of pleasure began.
I had never felt such waves of pleasure, and I let him know it as I twisted and cried. Afterward, he lay with his arms around me, his mouth moving between my shoulders, and finally my whimpering stopped. I turned in his arms, facing him, wishing I could explain my tears to him—and to myself.
“Liam. I was very frightened today.” Somehow my fright and my passion were twisted all together.
He stroked my hair over and over. “I know, a chuisle mo chroí. Shush, shush, I know.” He licked the tears from my cheeks.
“I love your loving me. You make me feel complete.”
He looked deep into my eyes. “I feel…same. Do ghrá, your love, complete me, too.”
We lay for a while, Liam stroking my hair. His gentle hands soothed my tangled curls back from my forehead, and I felt calm and whole. I murmured, “Tell me about the godspel.”
“Íosa—Jesus—came to the river, Cat. The one called Séan the Baptizer was there. Séan was all in animal skin, he eat the locusts and honey, he lay in the wild places. He knew Jesus would come to him, but he felt not worthy. He…he told the people, ‘One comes after me, one who shoes I unclean to touch.’
“In those days, the water, pure water, clean away the sin. But Jesus have no sin. And Séan pour the water over him because the Lord said to do it. And when the water touch him, the dove fly up. The spirit was the bird, Caitlín, the spirit flew from the head of the Lord. That was the baptizing, the cleaning. Jesus show us how to do it.”
“You make the story sound like it just happened.”
“Maybe just happened, Cat. Maybe long ago and now, same thing. I see the love in Jesus, he do everything out of love. I…want that, too. All love, all the time. Let the bird fly up. Cén fáth nach? Why not?”
I was overwhelmed by his pure understanding of Christ’s love. I had never felt that way about the Lord. The old priest who had taught me, Father Jonas, made him sound like a voice from a wilderness far, far away—not a voice crying out to us now, today.
“Darling Liam, I love you.” And then I knelt next to him and began to lick him, as he wanted me to do earlier, like a little fox finding something very, very good to eat.
I started to lick his ears, a bit of love play that always caused him to start sucking and nuzzling my mouth. “Lie still, let me lick you,” I whispered, licking his soft mustache and then outlining his lips with my tongue. “Lay back, love,” I murmured. He threw his head back on the bed, and I licked his neck and then his shoulders.
“Oh, take off this léine,” I told him, and he pulled it over his head in one swift motion and lay back again, naked and hard, watching me with a half smile playing on his mouth. I straddled him and bent to his nipples, pulling each one in turn with my mouth and teeth, very gently at first.
“Oh, hard, Cat,” he moaned. “Suck hard.” And I did. His chest and stomach were flat and warm, the skin wondrously soft. I stroked him and licked him lower and lower. I nuzzled the satin skin around his navel then the little, curled-up hairs of his groin. He began to arch his back up, thrusting himself toward my mouth.
“Wait, wait,” I said, and I licked the tip of his bata, then the rich-veined shaft, then the soft, yielding sac underneath. Again and again I did it, a bit harder and faster each time, until Liam was almost shouting his pleasure. Then my tongue found the cleavage of his butt tucked away, a place so warm and soft that I could not stop licking, and he could not stop moaning.
As his sounds of pleasure increased, so did my own passion. “Oh, what is this? Mmm, oh, it tastes so good.” I licked and sucked him more and more lustily, then I craved to see and touch his sensual butt. “Turn over, yes, let me lick you. I love your butt.”
“Cat, do it,” he said, turning. He spread his legs.
“What, Liam? What do you want?” My tongue ran up and down his cleavage, and I was stroking his bum, then seizing it hard with both hands. “Tell me, tell me.”
“I mo thoin,” he gasped, and I pushed my fingers up inside him and then almost withdrew, then again and again, all the while licking his smooth skin. “Now! I want it!”
“Yes, yes, turn to me,�
�� I told him, my groin aching for him. He turned over like a great wave seeking the shore, pulling me by the hips until his straining bata was between my legs. Taking it in both hands, I guided it inside me. From there, I was powerless as the strength of his muscled arms forced me up and down on his swollen groin. I tried to use my legs to control the rhythm, but he was too close to the edge of his passion. I let his pleasure spurt and well into me until I felt it, too, mounting into a great spasm, then relief.
I fell onto his chest while he stroked my hair. His chest was pounding as though the sea were battering the shore, and we lay still until his intensity had ebbed completely. “Me little red fox,” he murmured. “Ye…capture me.”
The light through our east window told me it was already past midday. “Liam,” I said after a while, one finger playing with his mustache. “Will you work today?”
“Not today, a Cháit. Want to…be with ye today.”
“Then let us take the bow and hunt for supper.”
Soon we were dressed warmly enough to take on the cold, clear afternoon. I wore my old training tunic and leather leggings and Liam his bríste, each of us pulled a warm brat over our shoulders.
We headed north, upriver. There were still a few patches of snow on the shadiest side of the trees. Liam was carrying the small bow with an arrow already nocked, and I had the little quiver around my own shoulders, for it would never have fit his large frame. He moved like a born hunter, the same way I used to see my former armsman Fletcher move, breathing as the wind breathed, moving as the pine needles rustled and sighed. I kept low, watching the ground, listening for a sudden chittering of birds or a rustling flight, telling me what the birds saw.
We both saw the red squirrel at the same moment. Liam froze in his tracks, and I crouched even lower to the ground. It was on a bare branch of larch some twenty feet from us, knocking a cone against the branch to unloose the seeds. The cones that had somehow survived the autumn stood out on the tree, brown nubs against bare, pendulous branches. The squirrel was handsome and cocky, with his bright red ear tufts and glossy coat. I watched his creamy-white belly, fascinated, as he concentrated very hard on his larch cone.
